The Swap: A Nicole Graves Mystery

By Nancy Boyarsky

”Full of page-by-page surprises" –Kirkus Reviews

When Nicole Graves arranges a summer-long swap of her Los Angeles condo for a London couple’s house, she thinks it’s the perfect arrangement. She’s always dreamed of seeing the real London; she’s also hopeful the time away with her husband Brad will be good for their troubled marriage. But things don’t turn out the way Nicole expects: The Londoners fail to arrive in L.A. and appear to be missing. Then people begin following Nicole and making threats, demanding information she doesn’t have. Soon, Nicole realizes she’s in serious trouble––but she can’t get Brad or the police to believe her. When the confrontations turn deadly, Nicole must either solve the case or become the next victim.

Winner of the Eric Hoffer Award — Best Micro Press Book of the Year

"a hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster of a mystery” –RT Book Reviews

Nicole's evolution places her amongst the most intriguing leads in the genre. –Foreword Reviews describe her action as "expertly combining menace with bling, making the heroine's adventures both nightmarish and dreamy." .

The Nicole Graves Mysteries

1. The Swap
2. The Bequest
3. Liar Liar
4. The Ransom

All Nicole Graves Mysteries can be read as stand-alone novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Light Messages Publishing
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781611531879

Nancy Boyarsky

Nancy Boyarsky is the bestselling author of the award-winning Nicole Graves Mysteries. Reviews compared The Swap to the mysteries of Mary Higgins Clark and praised Nancy for contributing to the "women-driven mystery field with panache" (Foreword Reviews) as well as for their "hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster" plots (RT Book Reviews). Kirkus had special praise for The Bequest, concluding, "Boyarsky's weightless complications expertly combine menace with bling, making the heroine's adventures both nightmarish and dreamy." In Liar Liar, Foreword Reviews falls once more for the "tough and likable protagonist Nicole Graves" and Midwest Book Review praises the "exquisite tension" throughout the story. Before turning to mysteries, Nancy coauthored Backroom Politics, a New York Times notable book, with her husband, Bill Boyarsky. She has written several textbooks on the justice system as well as articles for publications including the Los Angeles Times, Forbes, and McCall's. She also contributed to political anthologies, including In the Running, about women's political campaigns. In addition to her writing career, she was communications director for political affairs for ARCO. Her debut novel The Swap-book one of the Nicole Graves Mysteries-won the prestigious Eric Hoffer award for Best Micro Press Book of the Year. In response to the controversial and incendiary themes explored in Liar Liar, Nancy Boyarsky was invited to present at the American Library Association Annual Conference in 2018 on "Women-Driven Mysteries in a Post #MeToo World." In her latest novel, "Boyarsky's imagination serves up a court case that plays with expectations during an era where we push to believe women, resulting in some real bad baddies whom it feels good to root against." (Foreword Reviews). Liar, Liar is the third Nicole Graves novel, following The Swap ,The Bequest and The Ransom, each of which can be read as a stand alone. Readers are invited to connect with Nancy through her website at nancyboyarsky.com.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to

Bill, Jennifer, John, Anabelle and Lila

and in loving memory of Robin

One

Afterward, Nicole blamed herself

for not sensing something wrong that very first day, when she stepped across the Lowrys’ threshold into their shabby front hall.

But what, really, was there to notice, beyond the fact that the house was less than she’d expected? She was too exhausted from the long flight. If she was worried about anything, it was Brad’s silence, the impenetrable gloom that had enveloped him since they’d left L.A.

After a day or two, when she began to suspect she was in danger, it was impossible to get anyone to believe her. By the time the car blew up with that poor man inside, she understood this was no random act of terrorism. They were in serious trouble. Yet try as she might, it was impossible to convince Brad that the car bomb had anything to do with them, or the house swap, or the Lowrys, for that matter.

But that was later. After landing at Heathrow on that first morning, Nicole followed Brad through the airport, struggling to keep up. With Brad, activities as routine as finding their luggage and getting through customs were competitive sports.

Nicole had been unable to sleep during the long plane ride. She’d spent the time hatching schemes to fix their marriage and, at alternate moments, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Now, in the airport’s fluorescent glare, the rift between them was like a buzzing in her head—an insistent noise that blocked out everything else.

They were just leaving baggage claim when Nicole said, Wait. Brad kept walking, so she grabbed his arm. My other bag, she said. Where is it?

Your other bag, he repeated, setting the suitcases down and staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. He was tall and lanky with a broad face and dark brown hair that insisted on separating into curls despite stern measures taken with a blow dryer. The curls and his wide-set eyes usually gave him the look of an impish little boy. But this morning he was wearing a scowl and, after sleeping fitfully on the plane, seemed unusually cranky and distracted.

Looking back, she saw that the luggage carousel was empty and had stopped revolving. Nearby sat the only remaining pieces of unclaimed baggage, a carton tied with rope and a large aluminum trunk that looked as if it might contain a piece of movie equipment. The bag in question — black with tan leather trim, a slightly-larger version of the one slung over her shoulder — was nowhere in sight.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She could have sworn she’d pulled both of her suitcases from the moving belt. Now she wasn’t sure.

Locating the claims office and filing a lost baggage form consumed the better part of two hours. Before that, they’d spent forty-five minutes waiting in the long line in immigration. As they headed through customs toward the exit marked NOTHING TO DECLARE, Brad trailed along behind. His silence seemed to blame her for the lost suitcase and the delay. If she hadn’t come, she imagined him thinking, he’d already have checked into a hotel and be on his way to the office.

They took the express train from Heathrow to Paddington Station and, following Mrs. Lowry’s instructions, queued up for a cab. About twenty people were ahead of them. Brad stood at the edge of the sidewalk, as silent and remote as one of the lampposts that lined the street.

At any other time, Nicole would have been watching the other travelers, trying to pick up clues to the lives they led, their secrets and pretensions. She was insatiably curious about people, and the occasional chance to do some detective work was the one thing about her job she still found interesting. When the law firm wasn’t in chaos, she abandoned her role as office manager to help the resident private investigator. She had a gift for prying things out of people, figuring out connections, unearthing information no one else could find.

This morning, however, all of her curiosity had evaporated. Instead of staring at the people around her, she watched the red double-decker buses come and go, breathing in the reek of their exhaust. Jet lag, along with Brad’s abstraction, made her feel like a ghost in the final stages of dematerialization. Not for the first time, she was having doubts about the trip.

At last they climbed into a cab, and it carried them to Chiswick, about thirty-five minutes away.

The Lowrys’ next-door neighbor was pacing up and down in front of the house, waiting to let them in. He was enormously relieved to see them, a tall hunched man in his sixties who introduced himself as Mr. McGiever. Despite the brisk wind, he appeared to be sweating. Brought the fine weather with you, he said, mopping his brow with a crumpled handkerchief.

Nicole gave a puzzled smile and glanced at the sky. Between the gray clouds, thin scraps of blue peeked out. If this was a fine day, what could they expect of a normal summer day?

When they shook hands, McGiever’s was moist and sticky. It made Nicole’s skin creep, but she tried to be polite, waiting while he recited a welcoming speech that sounded as if he’d rehearsed it. Something about feeling free to call on him if they needed anything. It’s no trouble, he said. No trouble at all.

Nicole wasn’t paying much attention to the man; she was too distracted by the surroundings. Like its neighbors, the Lowrys’ house was a stunted-looking two-story brick with moldings of dingy white stucco outlining the windows and the eaves of the peaked roof. In front, a wrought-iron fence enclosed a yard just big enough to accommodate eight sick-looking rose bushes, four on either side of a cement path. Instead of lawn, the ground was covered with a layer of yellowing gray gravel.

The drapes were drawn, and the house looked deserted. Nicole prayed this meant the tenant was away. It wasn’t until her third email that Mrs. Lowry had even mentioned a tenant. She’s quiet and respectable, a qualified nurse specializing in home care. She only uses the room between cases.

Nicole, who had been ready to sign the agreement, balked at the idea of sharing the house with a stranger. She called Brad at the office to complain. For, while Brad had adamantly opposed the house swap, it was he who’d actually found the Lowrys’ house through a contact at work.

Oh, yeah, Brad said, when she asked him about the boarder. That’s something they do over there. Only she’s not a boarder; she’s a tenant. You don’t have to cook meals for her. Wait, hang on, he said. There was a click, then silence, while he put her on hold. Then he was back. I’ve got to go. Look, if you don’t like this arrangement, find something else.

For God’s sake, she said. We’re leaving in three weeks…

Maybe you should consider staying home.

Brad…

Do what you want, okay? Gotta go . Love ya!

After some soul searching, Nicole signed the agreement. But the tenant remained on her list of worries. What was the etiquette in dealing with such a person? Did the tenant share the kitchen with them, and how would that work? What if this quiet young woman had wild parties? Nicole pictured herself encountering strange men in the hallway at night.

Now if you’ll allow me, Mr. McGiever was saying, I’ll show you how to unlock the front door. Mr. Lowry is a great believer in household security, and there’s a bit of a trick to it. He produced a set of keys and eagerly escorted them to the door. The locks were rather complicated, requiring one key to release the doorknob, a second for the deadbolt, and yet a third for a lock near the bottom of the door.

There was a bad moment when Brad caught sight of the front hall—the peeling paint, the cracked tile floor, the worn tweed carpeting on the steps to the upper floor. It was all there on his face, his objection to her coming with him, to her being here at all. Never mind that he’d found this particular house. She was the one who’d insisted on this whole arrangement. It was on her.

There it was again—the rift between them, the hopelessness of ever fixing it. But she would, she told herself. That was why she’d come. She squared her shoulders and took a long gulp of air. Then, while Brad was getting rid of Mr. McGiever, she hurried through the first doorway on her left.

She found herself in a small dining room with dark wood paneling and a stone fireplace. It was crowded with furniture: a round oak table and chairs and two substantial china hutches. A narrow buffet table, shoved against one wall, held an array of condiments. She moved closer to read the labels: ketchup and Worcestershire sauce, some squat jars of mustard in several shades of nasty brown, chutney, jam, jelly, marmalade, lemon curd, honey, and small cruets of vinegar and oil. Despite the clutter, the room had a cozy charm.

The kitchen, through another doorway and a step down, was bright and airy. Looking around, she recognized it from Mrs. Lowry’s description, the new stove top, the stacked washer and dryer. Nicole was amazed at how small the appliances were, especially the oven, which looked like it dated back to the 1930s. A toaster, electric kettle, can opener, and coffee mill were lined up on the beige Formica counter. Each had a note—written in large, flowing script with a bright blue marker—taped in front explaining how it worked.

At the sight of the kitchen, Nicole’s spirits lifted. This was going to be okay. Brad, come here! she shouted.

After a moment or so, he appeared in the doorway, smiling. They’ve got a 65-inch LED TV, he said, and killer speakers. He seemed about to say something else, then hesitated, eyes dancing with amusement.

What? she said.

You’ve got to see the painting in the dining room.

She followed him back across the entry hall and through a nicely-furnished living room. It was a little bland for her taste, all beiges and browns. Beyond it, a good distance from the kitchen, was a formal dining room with a long mahogany table and twelve chairs. Hanging over an elaborately-carved sideboard was a mural populated by four repellent looking creatures, all nude. They were wrestling, or maybe embracing. She couldn’t tell. Nor could she determine what sex they were. Each had breasts, as well as a penis, five-o’clock shadow and long-painted fingernails. The artist possessed a certain amount of skill; the painting was interesting and provocative. But there was something weird about it that went beyond the androgynous nature of the figures.

She spent the next half-hour poking through the house. The sight of that painting had stirred her curiosity about the Lowrys. But the house offered no other clues to their proclivities. In fact, the place appeared disappointingly normal and—except for the front hall—decently maintained. There were quite a few antiques.

A piece that especially caught her eye was the large armoire that loomed at the top of the stairs. Up close, she noticed the carvings were of malevolent-looking creatures that might have been gargoyles, trolls, or dwarfs. Whatever they were, she didn’t like the expressions on their faces, the way they seemed to stare right at her. The armoire was finely crafted and odd in that there were no visible knobs or pulls for opening any interior compartments it might contain. She ran her hands over the carvings and tapped the heavy wood. Unable to figure out the trick, she gave up and moved on.

At the rear of the upstairs hall was a room she decided must belong to the tenant. She tapped on the door, waited a bit, then tapped again. No response. She waited a moment longer, then tried the knob, but the door was locked. With a sense of relief, she continued down the rear stairs, which led to a back door. From here, she walked down a short hallway and back into the kitchen.

It seemed strange there weren’t more clues about the Lowrys, about what kind of people they were. She’d gotten the impression Mr. Lowry had a job in banking or some sort of financial institution and that Muriel was a full-time housewife. Yet, other than the small appliances on the counter, the kitchen lacked cookbooks and equipment beyond the most basic pots and pans. From this, Nicole concluded that Muriel invested little time or effort in cooking. Nowhere had she seen clues to any other interests or hobbies.

There weren’t any books, not even magazines or newspapers lying about. The CD collection, a set of thirty-six recordings titled, Great Masterpieces of World Music, had been purchased as a set, complete with its own fitted rack. Only one of the disks had been removed from its cellophane wrap.

When she ran out of rooms to investigate, she found Brad upstairs in the master bedroom, unpacking his things. Then she spotted something she hadn’t noticed before. In one of the room’s two closets (the other left empty for Nicole and Brad) was a huge, old-fashioned metal safe, painted light green. The Lowrys’ clothes were jammed into the remaining space. She wondered how they’d gotten the safe through the bedroom door and into the closet. She reached out and gave the knob a tug. It was locked.

When she looked around, Brad was standing behind her.

Well, what do you think? she said.

That is one big safe.

No, silly, she said. The house!

Not too bad, he said. Not too bad.

It’s great, she said, beaming at him. We’d never have found anything this good through an agency.

He smiled, accepting this as praise. Then he stared at her a moment, tossed his suitcase onto the chaise lounge, and pulled her onto the bed.

Making love in this strange house, on a bed that actually squeaked, deepened her sense of unreality. At one point, she noticed that the bedroom door was open and remembered the tenant. She had an uneasy sense of someone else in the house, someone about to walk in on them. Then she was caught up in the warmth of him, the feel of his lips, the slow movement of hips and thighs. The strangeness of the house, England, the problems they’d been having—everything disappeared except the two of them.

Afterward, Brad dropped off to sleep while she drowsily took in the unfamiliar bedroom. Except for a few spots of dull turquoise, this room was done up in the same beiges and tans as the downstairs. Looking around, she wondered if the Lowrys’ marriage could possibly be as dull as their bedroom.

As she snuggled against Brad’s back, wrapping her arms around him, he pulled away and burrowed deeper into his pillow. She rolled onto her back, trying not to feel rejected. It was enough that he’d felt like making love again. A little at a time, she told herself. The chill was beginning to lift. She’d been right to insist on coming.

The leave of absence from her job—that seemed to be what infuriated him the most. The money, and the fact that she’d left without any guarantee her position would be there when she got back. He’d get over it. If they weren’t extravagant, they could manage on his salary for a while. She could always find another job.

She did feel bad about leaving Stephanie to cope with their father. Their mother had been dead over a year, and he still hadn’t recovered. Not that the marriage had been happy. On the contrary, his grief reminded Nicole of the old saying about it being easier to survive the loss of your best friend than the death of your worst enemy.

Despite her feelings of guilt, she’d felt compelled to accompany Brad to London. He would be gone the whole summer, his fourth trip in a year. Each time, he came back more distant. She worried that, after all this time apart, their problems might be irreversible.

After seven reasonably happy years of marriage, the chill between them puzzled her. Granted, they were two very different people. Nicole down to earth and practical, her energies focused on her small circle of friends and family. Aside from being an accomplished techy, Brad was something of a futuristic visionary with enough charisma to attract followers, people who believed in him. She’d always thought their differences were the reason they made such a great team. What had gone wrong?

She shivered, pushing the thought away, then kissed Brad on the side of the head and got up. She found a clean T-shirt among his things and pulled it on. The sleeves came almost to her elbows, the hem to mid thigh. She rolled up the sleeves, using her fingers to rearrange her hair. Only last Saturday, she’d had it trimmed and streaked with gold highlights to brighten up her natural color, a drab sparrow brown.

She moved closer to the mirror to study her face. At thirty-two, she still had no lines, no sign of crow’s feet. Today, in this unfamiliar setting, she looked different — faded somehow, like an overexposed photograph. Perhaps it was the light.

She rubbed her cheeks to bring back some color then turned from the mirror to trot downstairs and see what there was to eat. As agreed, the Lowrys had left enough food for the first day. Nicole had done the same at home. She pulled a loaf of bread and salad makings from the refrigerator, then she located a can of tuna in the cupboard. When lunch was ready, she covered it with paper towels. (No telling what sort of creatures might be running around in an old house like this.) Then she went back up to see if Brad was awake.

Finding him already up and dressed for the office, she felt a pang of disappointment. He was installed at a desk in a corner of the bedroom, talking on the phone while typing furiously on his laptop. This was something he prided himself on—the ability to do two, even three things at the same time. He’d better get one thing straight, he was saying. He paused a moment, absorbed in what he’d just written. Then, fingers flying over the keyboard again, he went on,Britcomp isn’t in charge anymore. We are.

She came up behind him and put her arms around his neck, her cheek against his. At her touch, he recoiled. This wasn’t a conscious gesture; he simply twitched and pulled away. It was enough to let her know he was talking to Brenda, his assistant. She’d arrived in London a week early to set things up.

The thought of Brenda made Nicole’s stomach knot. As she released Brad, she could almost hear Brenda’s little-girl voice at the other end of the line. Brenda was another reason Nicole had been so determined to come along.

She began to root through her remaining suitcase, trying to assess which of her carefully packed possessions had disappeared with the missing bag. Meanwhile, Brad said goodbye and hung up. He busied himself shutting down his laptop and putting it back in its case. This done, he reached into the closet for his blue sports coat.

But I made lunch, she protested. You don’t have to leave this minute, do you?

Instead of answering, he kissed her absentmindedly on the top of the head. Then he was clumping down the steps, two at a time. I’ll be home early, around seven. Don’t bother about dinner, he shouted up to her. We’ll take Brenda to that Indian place Dennis told us about. There was a brief silence before he added, Take a nap or something.

The front door slammed and she was alone.

Two

Despite her exhaustion

, Nicole was too keyed up for a nap. Instead, she put on shorts and a T-shirt and set off for a jog around the park she’d noticed on the ride in. The people she encountered were mainly elderly, sitting idly on benches or doddering along the paths with rickety metal shopping carts and string shopping bags.

As she began jogging, her mind drifted back over the last few months and the enormous effort this trip had required. It wasn’t just a matter of preparing the condo for the occupation of strangers and figuring out what to pack. The hardest part had been the battle over whether she should come at all.

Look. It’s not going to be much fun for you in London, he’d said, in one of his more conciliatory moments. Why not wait until next summer? Then we can both take off: go to Asia, backpack our way across India, see Tibet, the Himalayas.

She replied that she couldn’t wait a year. Besides, he’d been talking about that same trip since college, and he was never going to get around to it. Sensing her resolve, he accused her of being headstrong and impulsive. It was a familiar charge, one he seemed to drag out every time they had a fight.

And it was true that Nicole, growing up, had a reputation for being impulsive. In family lore, several favorite stories illustrated this tendency, the most famous being the time she’d stopped on the shoulder of the Santa Monica Freeway to rescue a dog. She was sixteen at the time, newly licensed to drive.

Nicole’s parents were furious at the way she’d imperiled herself for a stupid mutt. They’d suspended her driving privileges for the entire summer, an eternity in her young life. Even so, the family kept the dog, a short-legged, red-haired creature who looked like a cross between an Irish Setter and a dachshund. For many years, Franny was their much beloved pet, a fact that gave Nicole great satisfaction. She’d never seen the decision to rescue the dog as rash—quite the contrary. She’d been certain, when she pulled onto the shoulder of the freeway, opened the car door, and called, Here, doggy, that the story would have a happy ending.

As her feet pounded along the path, she wondered once again why Brad so opposed her coming. I have enough on my plate, he’d said, without having to worry about you. This argument didn’t make sense when, on several previous assignments, he’d seemed genuinely disappointed that she couldn’t get time off work to come along. Now she wondered if his earlier protestations had been entirely sincere.

As she started around the park for the third time, sweat began dripping in her eyes, and she slowed to a walk. Pulling off the red kerchief she was wearing as a headband, she wiped her face. Only then did she notice she was the park’s only jogger, the only woman in shorts and (as far as she could see) the sole person under sixty. People were staring in a way that implied joggers weren’t an everyday sight on Turnham Green. Suddenly self-conscious, she strolled out of the park, still heading away from the house.

After another few minutes, she came to a large brick supermarket called Sainsbury’s. Inside, the smell of food was intoxicating: bread baking, chickens roasting. Cruising the fresh produce, she noticed tomatoes, melons, strawberries, peaches, and cellophane packs of lettuce bearing labels from countries like Spain, Portugal, Israel.

She had a sudden inspiration. They could go to that Indian restaurant any time. Tonight she’d make a nice dinner.

She’d brought along her credit card. The prices here seemed reasonable—that is, until she got to the checkstand and realized she was spending pounds, not dollars. But what difference did it make? Eating at home was bound to be less expensive than going to a restaurant.

As hostess, she reasoned, she’d be in charge. She could refuse to let Brad and Brenda dominate the evening with shop talk. They were always doing that, shutting her out of the conversation.

When she turned the corner and the Lowrys’ house came into view, she spotted a stranger emerge from the backyard. He headed purposefully up the front steps and appeared to be trying to look in the windows.

The man and his behavior alarmed her. Was this even the right street? She made a hasty detour into Mr. McGiever’s flowerbed, pretending to examine a scruffy outcropping of plants while she took another look. Yes, she decided, that was the Lowrys’ house. If this man was a door-to-door salesman, he was certainly aggressive about it. She considered the wisdom of waiting behind the hedge until he left.

Just then, a curtain parted in the window nearby, and Mr. McGiever peered out. She felt exposed, caught in the act of trampling his garden. But she wasn’t about to walk up to his door and ask for help. That would be more trouble than it was worth. She could handle this herself. After readjusting her load of groceries, she walked on.

As she reached the Lowrys’ gate, the man hurried forward to open it, and she noticed he looked a little like Brad. The two had the same general coloring, only this man was taller, more muscular. And, while Brad had a tendency to slouch, there was something about the way this man stood, the set of his shoulders. He was, in fact, much better looking than Brad, with almond-shaped eyes that reminded her of the actor who starred in the old movie, American Gigolo, a particular favorite of hers.

His gaze was admiring and, at the same time, unsettling. It made her aware of the wind whipping her T-shirt around and of her bare legs, the inappropriateness of her skimpy white shorts in this sedate London neighborhood. On her outing, the only other female she’d seen with legs on display had been a girl in a leather miniskirt. She’d been no more than eighteen, skinny as a stick.

He was holding the gate open. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped into the yard. Then, as the gate clanged behind her, she remembered the way he’d been snooping around. She noticed that the street looked empty, the windows of the houses dark and unyielding. Next door, where Mr. McGiever had been peeking out only a minute ago, the place appeared deserted.

She thought of the self defense class she’d taken and its cardinal rule: When approached by a stranger, no matter how respectable he looks, prepare to defend yourself. The stance came back to her—hands ready to push against an assailant’s chest, knee poised for a quick jab to the groin.

But that was ridiculous. She never doubted her ability to take care of herself, even in a place like L.A. And this was London, the most civilized city in the world. No one would attempt robbery, rape, or mayhem on a quiet, residential street, certainly not in broad daylight. Besides, this man appeared to be as solid as the Bank of England. Her memory flickered. Was there really a Bank of England; if so, was it still in business?

Meeting his glance, she felt her cheeks flush. Get a grip, she told herself. Then, aloud, Can I help you?

I’m looking for Frederick Lowry, the man said in clear, BBC English. I need to get in touch with him rather urgently.

I’m afraid he’s away. Out of the country. The words were out before she had time to consider whether this was something she should be telling a stranger.

Do you know when he’ll be back?

Again, she hesitated. But what harm would it do to tell him? After Labor Day, she said. Then, remembering this was England, she added, The third or fourth of September.

That’s a bit inconvenient, he said. Isn’t there any way to get in touch with him? A telephone number?

I’m sorry, she said. I really don’t know where he is right now. This was a lie. On their way to L.A., Muriel had said they were stopping off in Dallas for two days to visit family. In the interim, Nicole’s sister was watching the condo, watering the plants, and feeding the dog.

As his smile dimmed, it occurred to her that he might be a policeman. But no, she decided, his jacket was too expensive, and that gold watch he was wearing was a Rolex. Brad had a fondness for designer knock-offs, and she knew such things could be faked. This one looked real enough.

Mr. Lowry and I have a small business venture together, he said. I can assure you he’ll be most anxious to hear what I have to tell him.

If that’s so, she thought, why didn’t he tell you he was leaving the country? Then, aloud, All right. If he happens to call, I’ll tell him you want to speak to him.

I wonder if I could persuade you to contact him.

She felt weary and out of patience. Listen, she said, I already told you… She stopped and made an effort to be polite. I haven’t any idea where he is. His wife said they wouldn’t be using a mobile on this trip, so I can’t reach them by phone. Why don’t you give me your number? If they happen to call, I’ll pass it on.

He studied her a moment, his expression doubtful. Just tell him Reinhardt said to get in touch, he said. He has the number. For the first time, he seemed to notice the load of groceries in her arms. I say, that shopping looks heavy, and I’ve kept you standing there. Please allow me… He moved forward, as if to take them.

At that moment, an alarm went off in her head. She thought of the appalling incident in the condo down the hall from theirs, the brutal rape of a young woman. The assailant had been wearing a business suit, a respectable-looking stranger who’d offered to help carry the woman’s groceries. The crime had inspired the residents association to offer the self-defense class. Until then, Nicole had felt invulnerable, removed from the city’s violent nature, immune to the car jackings, ATM robberies, muggings and parking-structure stabbings, the drive-by shootings and freeway snipers. For the first time, a self-defense class had seemed like a good idea.

No thanks, she said, gripping the bags tighter and taking a step back to let him pass. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help.

For a moment, he didn’t move; as he stared at her, she could see he wasn’t used to being dismissed. His expression darkened, and she noticed a feral cast to his eyes, the look of a predator. I’m sorry to have troubled you, he said stiffly. He started for the gate, then turned back to add, Good day.

She watched him walk across the street toward a small black sports car and waited for him to get in. Then she set her bags down and unlocked the front door.

She was in the kitchen, unloading her groceries when she suddenly remembered seeing him come out of the backyard. She went to the back door and inspected it. Her knees went weak when she saw that it wasn’t locked. She told herself that she must have forgotten to relock it earlier, when she was exploring the garden.

After securing the lock, she walked back to the front door and peered through the small, eye-level window. He was still out there, sitting in his car. She couldn’t tell what he was doing, but he didn’t seem to be looking at the house.

She wondered, suddenly, why this man was so desperate to find Lowry

Reviews for The Swap

[kris_anderson-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Swap: A Mystery by Nancy Boyarsky is a fun mystery book. It is not quite a cozy mystery but it is also not a suspense or mystery thriller (just a very good mystery). Nicole and Brad Lewis are flying to London for the summer. Brad’s office has sent him across the pond to handle an acquisition. Nicole insisted on going with Brad because she felt that they need the time together, not apart, to work on their marriage. They arranged to swap houses with a couple named Lowry. The Lowry’s would live in the Lewis’ condo in LA while the Lewis lived in the Lowry’s home in Cheswick. Nicole starts having trouble from the moment they land at Heathrow. First she is missing a suitcase, then someone breaks into the house and locks Nicole in the bathroom, and then she is attacked at the museum. This is just the beginning of Nicole’s adventure in the United Kingdom. Nicole is determined to find out what happened to the Lowry’s (who never showed up in LA) and why someone keeps trying to kidnap her. Read The Swap: A Mystery to find out what happens to Nicole and the solution to the mystery! Happy Reading! I received a complimentary copy of this book from NetGalley/Publisher in exchange for an honest review.

[mpr2000-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Nicole, is an American who will be staying for 3 weeks in a big house in London, not for holidays but to try to save her marriage with Brad. When some frightening things start to happen around her, she only wants to return home and divorce Brad.Visiting London is one of my favourite pleasures, and staying there for 3 weeks would be my dream. I made a few swap houses in my life, some are better than others of course, but I was never so unlucky like Nicole to end in a house like the Lowry's!I love reading a book that allows you to make your own plots on your head while you are reading it...Is Brad behind the bomb explosion? Who are the Lowry's? Why is Alice so frightened? Is Reinhart who he says he is?And knowing that maybe the author will make a twist on the next page and everything you planned could not be...I recommend you to follow Nancy Boyarsky books, they are enjoyable everywhere, even so making swap houses! And finding a good mystery with twists and an interesting plot is the best way to start the new year.So, in your next travel, would you choose a hotel or swapping houses?

[carlathelibrarian · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Nicole and her husband Brad have arranged a house swap for the summer while Brad is working in London. Brad did not want Nicole to go with him on this trip, but she convinces him to allow her to accompany him to London. She has a list of all the things she wants to do when she arrives in London and Brad is at work. That doesn't happen. First, the London couple never arrive at Nicole and Brad's house in LA, someone breaks into the home where they are staying, and Nicole is threatened by two thugs in a local museum. The trouble does not stop there. The police aren't very helpful and neither is Brad who seems distracted by work so Nicole is left to work out what is happening herself.

This is the classic house swap gone bad. It is also an engaging mystery with plenty of twists and turns, some classic bad guys and a handsome undercover cop. Also plenty of action with kidnappings and explosions as Nicole inadvertently gets mixed up with some very nasty criminals. Unfortunately, this book has a few niggles for me. There is too much happening involving a person who does not know the country at all. She is very naive and tends to believe what she is told by people she doesn't even know. She takes huge chances and travels all over the United Kingdom, being chased and followed. At now time does she go to the U.S. embassy, which pretty much anyone would do when the police do not give you much help. I am looking forward to the next book in this series to see if these things change and become a bit more believable as I really did like this gutsy amateur investigator. I listened to this book and the audio was quite well done. This quote from the author about the narrator says it all, “Jane Oppenheimer narrated my two mystery books for Audible, and I’m thrilled with the results. Not only does she have a beautiful and expressive voice, she’s able to convincingly switch to credible male voices and assume foreign accents. I highly recommend her.”

[mystereityreviews · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Read my full review Mystereity Reviews

When Brad Graves is transferred to London temporarily, wife Nicole comes along in an attempt to save her failing marriage. After arranging a house swap with the Lowrys, Nicole and Brad settle in at their temporary home. Soon after, strange things happen and Nicole begins to feel like her life is in danger. After reporting several terrifying incidents to the police, who are are sympathetic but disbelieving, and when the Lowrys don't show up at her LA condo, Nicole begins to investigate on her own and finds herself being drawn deeper and deeper into trouble.

The Swap is the debut novel by the author and I wasn't sure what to expect as I sat down to read it. Once I started it, it was hard to put it down! I read about half of this one evening and then couldn't sleep all night because I was so busy thinking about what was going to happen. I loved the premise of a house swap gone wrong, and there was a mystery on almost every page. This was the kind of thriller that raises the hair on the back of your neck, and it's all too easy to feel Nicole's fear as she's stalked, threatened and accosted by thugs, her anguish over her crumbling marriage, and her betrayal, anger and sadness towards Brad. On the other hand, there were a few times when I wanted to reach in the book and give Nicole a good, hard shake and tell her to wake up. Seriously, girl, your intuition is waaay off! The spectacular conclusion was the perfect way to end the book, a little romance and a lot of action. What more can you ask for?

Overall, The Swap is an excellent 5 star thriller that will keep you turning pages -and looking over your shoulder - right to the very last page.

I was given an advance copy of this book by the author in exchange for my honest review.